


Mine

by orphan_account



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Cigarettes, DRAMAtical Lesbians, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Lesbian Sex, Lots of Angst, Mild Kink, Non-Canon Relationship, Secret Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, how to tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alice hadn’t realized that supporting the Lodges’ latest business venture would make her so incredibly possessive.





	Mine

**A/N: Hope you enjoy this smutty little piece of my mind. This idea wouldn’t get out of my head so I decided I had to bring it to fruition. Un-beta’d, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

**I don’t own these characters. I just own their raging gayness, and this story. Please don’t steal it - I have my ways of finding out if you do. ;)**

The party is just too much for her.

Alice had thought she could do it - she’d thought she could support Hermione from afar by attending the function with a carefully detached smile and her tool belt of trademark insults. Playing the perfect suburban housewife has been her calling card for so many years it should be second nature by now, but it’s just too much, and it’s all hitting her at once.

Hermione is dressed to kill. A skintight black number paired with kitten heels and pearls that has to be designed to make her look like sex on legs. Every time her eyes fall on that toned skin, far too much of which is currently exposed for her liking, Alice can barely control the bone-deep urge to stake a claim… a claim which is decidedly not hers in the first place. Her husband is all over her, every bit as protective, _possessive_ , as Alice would like to be in this very moment, and it’s all she can do to grit her teeth, breathe, and make it out of the room without doing something stupid. It takes a minute to pry her fingers from the chair whose back she’s gripping; her knuckles are white with the strength of a hold that isn’t even really helping to ground her.

Their apartment is ridiculously large.

Two bedroom, three bath, with a living room, den, foyer, and a respectably large kitchen, all spread across two floors. It even has a balcony, and not the kind that looks like it should fit in the small space between the adjacent buildings. The kind that looks like it’s been ripped from a catalogue, with a beautiful view and picturesque railings and a monochrome aesthetic that makes Alice want to _punch_ something.

She resents how much Hiram is able to give Hermione… how much she could _never_ give her. Their life is picture perfect, like a work of art from the outside, and her only consolation is how deeply Hermione has confided in her, how many of the cracks in that carefully constructed veneer she’s been allowed to see and understand for herself.

Alice leans heavily against the marble railing of the balcony, looking out over the town with what she hopes can appear as lazy disinterest as she fishes a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her trench coat. It’s not as if she’s surprised to find it there - it always is, acting as her own private comfort, there just so that she could if she really _needed_ to.

And, _god_ , does she need to.

Her gaze passes over streetlights, just beginning to flicker to life with the fading of the sunset, noting the almost poetic quality to the long shadows cast by their harsh fluorescent glare as she lights a cigarette. The lighter, too, is there as insurance. She hasn’t used either in a long time; it’s the intoxicating idea that, if Hal weren’t around, she might be able to someday that keeps them in her pocket for emergencies. The first drag relaxes her instantly, bringing a certain relief to the pounding of her heart, to the sheer loneliness this setting has wrapped her in. It takes the edge off of everything, and a calm washes over her, bringing a soft smile to her lips that, for once, doesn’t hold a trace of cynicism. Her eyes halfheartedly follow the smoke as it curls gently into the air, fluttering closed on a memory in the next second.

This is familiar; to her, this has always meant peace.

She hasn’t smoked in decades. That much is true. It’s a practice she gave up along with hard liquor and anything else that might cause her long term health problems the moment Hal asked her out in junior year. Building her future so early might have seemed like a good move at the time, but all it’s done for her now is to delay her own self-discovery… to stop her from realizing what she truly wants out of life. At seventeen, she’d had everything planned out. She’d wanted, _craved_ , that white picket fence, but today it all feels empty, and she’s never felt more alone than she did two months ago.

And then Hermione entered the picture.

Or, perhaps more accurately, she repainted it in a style that suited her better.

Alice remembers with vivid clarity the first time they kissed, _really_ kissed. It was a dangerous dichotomy of harshness and delicacy, an ill-fated reminder of what such an embrace could be… of what they had both so longed for in the wasted years of their lives. It felt like a needed wakeup call for both of them, and she hungers to feel that passion again, to feel _alive_ like that again. Hermione is the only person that has given her that for two decades now, but they have to stop, they have to fucking _stop_ , because if they don’t it will end in heartbreak for both of them. They’re married, they’re taken, they _can’t_ …

Every time they fall into bed together, Alice manages to convince herself that’s all it is. She barely manages to lose herself in the physical lust, in the skin-deep attraction, and manages, somehow, not to feel hurt when Hermione leaves the moment they’re finished, her parting sentiment being that it can never happen again. Alice still has marks on her back, scratches from her nails, and shudders involuntarily as she is reminded of how it felt to be marked like that, how very young she had felt that night.

One thing she is exceptionally good at is pretending.

Hermione’s hands feel like they were always meant to hold her. Every time they touch, she feels that spark, but more than that, beneath it, a deep wish to simply hold her, and to be held. To help each other through the darkness and into the light that must come at the end. Alice wants that with her, but knows it can never be, that they can never be anything more than a collection of stolen moments.

Another drag of the cigarette has her eyes clouding over with tears.

The hand that doesn’t hold the smoke drapes over the edge of the balcony and she lets her gaze drop to what lies below her rather than the sky, biting her lip on the needs she will never know how to express. It gets harder every day, she imagines. Harder to pretend that this means nothing to her. That Hermione means nothing more to her than a warm, willing body.

“I thought I would find you out here.”

Even her voice is enough to have Alice captivated. Depending on the day, a single telling statement is enough to enthrall her to the point that she can barely think past what her next intent is. Now, all she an register is the note of worry that rings clearly out beneath the forced neutrality, and her next drag ends in an exhale that is almost too harsh, followed immediately up by a careful cough.

“I didn’t think you would care.”

It’s a lie, crass and uncalled for, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Her words come out husky and deep, partially from the effort it takes not to cry, mostly from the smoke. At another time, she knows that would probably set Hermione off in a much more desirable way, but all it earns her tonight is a soft sigh of dissatisfaction - disappointment, if her instincts are right. The unmistakable click of too-high heels sounds against the tile, and Alice gets her wish before she knows it; Hermione’s arms wrap around her waist, chin resting in the crook of her shoulder. The posture is clearly meant to comfort, to provide that warmth she’s been unconsciously reaching for, but it’s all wrong.

It’s all _wrong_.

She tenses in the hold, her mind and heart at odds as she reminds herself yet again that this means nothing. Even if Hermione is treating her like she cares now, it won’t be like that later, when there are people again, when they have to pretend again. It’s taxing in a way Alice has never known and she isn’t quite sure how much longer she can live in shadow, her only true chance at happiness kept behind a curtain out of necessity.

One thing Hermione is known for, however, is persistence, and she brushes Alice’s hair back, pressing a gentle kiss to the place where her neck and shoulder meet as she does so. They share the view now, but it’s seen through two very different lenses: one of hope for the future, one of mourning for the past. Bright and dim. Calm and panic.

Hermione sees the lamplight. Alice sees the inky darkness surrounding it.

“What’s the matter,” comes the whisper, careful in its quiet nature, and Alice can’t help her shaky sigh because, really, what _isn’t_ the matter? Any answer she could give would be so complicated, so needlessly complicated, and she doesn’t want to explain how jealous she feels of a man Hermione purports to hate simply because he’s the one with the ring on his finger. She doesn’t feel able to explain how much it hurts her every time she sees them touch, or how agonizing it is to realize how comfortable he is with her… how easy their interactions are, even if that’s fake.

It occurs to her, in a sharp moment of clarity, that she would never allow herself a show of vulnerability like this if she were with anyone else. She never shared this piece of herself with Hal, will never share it with her children… has only ever allowed Hermione to see it in twenty odd years.

What does that say about them?

Alice turns abruptly in her counterpart’s arms, fisting the dark fabric of what, upon closer inspection, is a crossover blouse and not a dress, pulling her in to fit their lips together in a way that must come off as wildly desperate. She’s searching for something normal, a way to come back from the terrifyingly new territory she’s wandered into, and a sigh of relief breaks from her lips the moment Hermione starts to respond to her. She can’t even bring herself to care how she looks, how this must seem, because this right here, this can cure anything, can make any problem fade for a few moments if it’s just done right.

And they always do it right.

The kiss is bitter and rough, wine and smoke combining into a unique taste that somehow perfectly matches the state they’re in as a couple… if they can even be called that. It is punishing, it is harsh, but it still has that underlying passion to it that has them pressed together as closely as they can get, clinging tightly to each other like they’re drowning in the other’s mere presence. Hermione’s hands find purchase on the railing, just next to where it digs into Alice’s back, and the blonde’s arms fall around her neck, deepening the kiss with ease as her fingers tangle into the wispy locks of hair that have escaped her lover’s bun. Her cigarette is quickly cast aside, thrown away to rest on the floor somewhere behind them so she can have both hands free to touch, to explore.

“If you had come out here earlier, I wouldn’t have needed the smoke,” she teases breathlessly, breaking the embrace only to take in much-needed oxygen. The unspoken remainder of that claim swirls around in her mind like whiskey in a glass, holding in it the power to help her forget everything she’s done wrong in this lifetime… the ability to make her happy for a short time, only to leave her hurt and lonely in the morning.

_You are the only drug I will ever need._

As if to test the truth behind that statement, Hermione raises her eyebrows, bringing the lighter she surreptitiously retrieved from Alice’s pocket moments ago into view. Her complex eyes flash with something like worry, and the blonde notices a hot guilt coiling in her chest for reasons she can’t -doesn’t want to- identify. There is nothing wrong with what she’s done, but it’s clear Hermione doesn’t approve, and that’s enough to make her feel wary about it.

“Why do you have this,” Hermione presses, soft but strong, and Alice’s eyes close out of reflex, unable to bear the expression of concern twisting the brunette’s features.

“It’s for stress,” she whispers, and that’s not exactly a lie, so she can live with it. Hermione’s slender fingers cup her chin, silently asking to meet her eyes, and, reluctantly, she allows it - putting all her effort into begging to drop the topic without saying a word. It’s not like they care about each other enough to worry if the other is doing something like getting drunk or smoking. They’re not _supposed_ to care about each other that way. It would be so much _easier_ if Hermione didn’t care about her that way…

Understanding registers in her counterpart’s eyes, and something in them closes off, surrendering to the idea of pretending, once again, that they’re something they aren’t. But Alice finds she doesn’t want to act like she doesn’t care, no matter how easy it might be; rather, she wants to act like Hermione is the only other woman in the world, like she is the only one who can make her happy, for once. She’s well aware of how much of a mess she is tonight, but her desires are very clear to her now, and she allows that to show through in the tenderness she displays as she brushes a stray curl of Hermione’s hair behind her ear.

“There are other ways to alleviate your stress,” Hermione shoots back at last, bringing that element of teasing back into the conversation as she tucks the lighter back into Alice’s pocket, trusting her to keep it there. In turn, the blonde emits something like a purr, pressing herself flush against her partner once again as she hooks her arms more securely around her shoulders. Hermione smirks gently, knowingly, and allows the concern to take back seat, taking in Alice’s appearance for the first time since she got here, letting her attraction become the most important thing on her mind.

This is what they know; this is what they’re comfortable with.

There are many ways to help with her stress, indeed. But Alice would much rather take care of Hermione than put herself first tonight. It’s about showing her, and, to a lesser extent, herself, that she can give her just as much, if not more, than what Hiram can. She wants to dominate. She wants to pleasure.

And, most importantly of all, she wants to worship.

Their lips crash together again, the kiss almost animalistic in its intensity, and Alice pushes them backward, away from the railing to rest against the wall instead, effectively switching up the power dynamic in one smooth movement. Even that single show of dominance has Hermione breathing heavily, more excited than she probably should be by the prospect of sitting back and letting Alice have her way with her with the party in full swing just a few feet away. She moans quietly into the blonde’s mouth in reaction as Alice’s hands find a hold on her hips, raising her own arms above her head and baring herself to her lover’s hungry gaze in the process.

That gives her her own private sense of power; the look she receives is so loaded with lust that she can easily feel the liquid heat building between her legs, the dirty nature of the whole thing turning her on beyond measure. Hiram could find them at any moment… they could be found out at any moment.

The thought sends a shiver down her spine, but not of fear: of pure, unadulterated need. Let them come. Let them find out. Much like Alice, she finds herself unable to stomach the thought of pretending any longer, and…

And she suddenly can’t think about it anymore, can’t think about anything anymore as Alice’s lips start to kiss and lick a path of fire down her neck, instinctively paying special attention to each and every one of her spots so that she’s panting with the urge to return the favor, to _touch_. Her right hand’s fingers tangle harshly into golden curls, tugging just enough to hurt, and she smiles hotly to herself when Alice releases a groan in response.

Almost automatically, her free hand moves under Alice’s skirt, walking up her thigh to locate the slightly rougher patch of skin at her hip that signifies her Serpent tattoo. She traces it with deft fingers, a shaky breath freeing itself from her throat as the kisses at her neck grow more heated in response. This specific caress is loaded with meaning to the both of them; it says that Hermione appreciates, cares for, every part of Alice, including her past. It says that she has nothing to worry about, because Hermione finds her beautiful, especially when she’s like this, and, for the most part, that relaxes her… except for rare occasions like these, when the touch only serves to arouse her further.

Hermione remembers with fondness the first time she saw Alice’s body without restrictions; the first time she was allowed to see the tattoo, to learn its history. Her appreciation of the mark is much the same as Alice’s reason for keeping it at all: to appreciate the tattoo is to appreciate how it came to be on her body, and the part of her life that she associates with and was defined by the Serpents. Hermione does so love it when she lets her darker side out to play… when she really shows off her scales.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes, Alice’s hands slipping beneath her shirt, palms icy cold against her overheated skin. Hermione knows somehow that the other woman wants to hear her, wants her to be vocal, even though she’s never really seen Alice in this state. She just… _knows_. This possessiveness is new for them in so many ways, but the idea that her partner wants to claim Hermione as hers is not, to her, an alien one. Hiram’s acted similarly many times over the years, but the way he showed it was much less concerned with her own pleasure… she supposes it’s a matter of opinion, what constitutes _owning_ a person in a situation like this. Hiram would have said it comes down to being able to dominate her fully; Alice is different. Alice seems to believe that possession comes in the ability to give her unrivaled bliss, in the marks she leaves behind that show just how much they both want it, and she can’t say she quite disputes the idea.

“God, _Alice_ …”

It isn’t uncommon for her to react strongly to this woman. The practiced smoothness to her touch speaks to how comfortable with one another they are, and how well they know each other’s bodies… which caresses they respond to best, where to focus to elicit a specific sound. However, tonight it’s somehow even more than that. The rawness Alice is displaying in her vulnerability, how much of herself she’s letting Hermione become acquainted with, is very new. Never before would she have shown it so obviously if she were feeling uncomfortable with their state of affairs, because they wouldn’t have been close enough for it to matter… or, perhaps, they would have _pretended_ not to be.

Tonight, Hermione is getting all of Alice, every part of her, and that’s a risk, but it also makes her feel privileged. This feels different than it ever has before, more layered, and even though it still looks like it’s an act born only of passion, Hermione can’t help but feel like it’s more… like this is something akin to making love.

She wouldn’t really know. With Hiram, it’s always the same.

But when Alice’s hand comes up to palm her breast through her bra, gentle, more careful than anything beneath that veil of lust, the flash of pleasure that skitters across her spine is unrelated to anything she’s ever experienced, laced in a feeling of absolute peace that, while it doesn’t take away from her excitement, definitely changes it. As her nipple peaks under Alice’s knowing touch, she feels cared for, protected, and isn’t surprised at all when she feels the steady flow of breath at her neck begin to hitch, biting her lip on the soft whimper that she can’t quite hold back to the extent that she should.

More than the physical arousal building within her (and there is plenty of that; she can’t recall a time she’s ever gotten so wet so quickly), she feels deeply connected to Alice in this moment, and that does more for her than any single touch could. She’s overwhelmed with the urge to reciprocate, to share the experience with her partner, so she manages to get her breath back just enough to force the words out… just enough to convey what she really needs.

“Kiss me.”

If Alice is surprised, she doesn’t show it. She simply gives in, raising her head once more, pausing just before their lips connect. They’re breathing each other’s air and it’s so _intoxicating_ that Hermione’s knees have suddenly gone weak… combined with Alice’s mussed hair and the glazed look in her eyes, she can hardly think to carry out the action at all, perfectly content to let the woman do whatever she pleases as long as it finishes the way she wants it to.

In the end, it isn’t her who leans in fully, but she responds in kind once it happens, a gasped iteration of something that could be Alice’s name crossing her lips as the blonde’s free hand slips into her lace panties, distracting her even further from her thoughts with massaging motions that are just the wrong side of slow… a teasing look at what she could be feeling. Her eyelids flutter gently shut once more and she can feel the deep red smirk against her own plum lipstick, wondering at what she might look like… almost sure by now that some of the color must have rubbed off on her neck. The thought has her hips bucking up into the barely-there touch of her lover’s experienced fingertips, longing for a deeper connection after a few moments of what she can only view as torture.

“ _Dios mío_ ,” Hermione mutters, frustration building steadily. She knows Alice’s game - both of them know she won’t be able to finish this way, and it seems the blonde intends to make her beg. The comment, however, finishes in a reluctant moan as the touch speeds up, hitting her just the right way to turn her protests to liquid. It feels good, she will give it that, it feels so good, but it can’t and won’t be enough for her. All the same, her hips begin to rock, head falling back against the cool surface of the wall behind her as Alice lays down another line of kisses, this time to her chest in compliment to her ulterior ministrations there.

“You could come this way,” she asserts, so confident that Hermione almost begins to believe it. “I won’t do that to you… but you could.”

Hermione tries to scoff at her bravado, to turn it into a joke, but Alice is manipulating her body in a way that can’t be denied, and all she can manage to pull off is a moan that’s laced in desperation, cracked with a level of emotion that should scare her. It makes Alice chuckle against her, a sultry little thing, and she doesn’t really regret her inability to protest if only because it leads her to hear that single sound. Sweat beads on her skin, and she knows soon this will become unbearable, either too little or too much (never _really_ enough), but she can’t find it in her to voice it just yet.

She can’t find it in her to _beg_ just yet.

Alice’s fingers start to explore. Her thumb is constantly working Hermione’s clit, but other digits drift downward, teasing her entrance, making her gasp with the need to go that step further… to be fully connected with the blonde in that way. Every time they do this together, every time Alice dominates her, she feels that intense, instinctive need to be filled by her. She doesn’t quite understand why - maybe it’s because Hiram never consented to do it this way, even once… maybe it’s because she wants something to share with Alice that is theirs alone.

“Please,” she grits out, and she’s easy, she’s so _easy_ , but she’s done playing games: she needs this and she needs it now.

Alice purrs in satisfaction, sliding two fingers into her with ease, and Hermione sighs in a combination of pleasure and relief, adjusting almost instantly to the stretch and gripping hard to Alice’s shoulders in an indication that, yes, she can move now. The pace she sets is hard and fast, but that’s good, that’s what they both want, and Hermione isn’t trying to hold back her reactions anymore, blissed out whimpers and needy gasps slipping past her lips unfiltered as Alice focuses all her energy on guiding her to ecstasy. Already, she’s close: after all that teasing, she won’t take much of anything to come, but she still does her best to delay it, opening her eyes for just a moment to watch Alice as her pleasure grows.

The blonde’s kisses have progressed into hickeys, a line of them down Hermione’s neck and chest, and if she tries she can imagine Alice’s face; lipstick smeared, eyes bright from arousal, cheeks flushed with an excitement that likely won’t be fully gone from her system for hours.

“ _Mine_ ,” Alice whispers, and it’s so quiet Hermione almost doesn’t register it, but so intense that it has her breath catching in her throat, unsure how to react. Alice’s head lifts from her chest to meet her eyes, and though nothing stops, the way they connect seems to freeze the world for a moment. Hermione feels it, too; she feels the statement behind that single word so acutely in her own actions that she can’t quite stop herself from agreeing in the privacy of her own mind, especially as her body is responding so exquisitely to Alice’s every touch. She shudders under the weight of it, her breath leaving her in harsh pants as it fogs into the night air. Is it really that cold? Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever been so unbearably _hot_ …

Her chest heaves with every intake of air and it’s becoming so hard to think about breathing, instinct taking over as Alice does everything she can to push her over the edge. A sharp bite to her shoulder has her bucking her hips hard, gasping now, feeling it all starting to come together. Alice’s fingers never falter, but her thumb picks up speed, and Hermione curses in a tone that is so dirty it tips Alice past whatever dignity was keeping her from finding her own pleasure against the brunette’s leg.

“Say it,” she grits out, breathing fast as well by now, and, the witch that Alice is, Hermione just knows she won’t be allowed to find release until she does. She bites her lip, deliberating for several moments that feel like years to both of them. Is it really fair to ask her to give in to this in such a way? Can she betray Hiram like that? Does she even want to?

Later, she will blame the lust clouding her mind for the choked _yours_ that crosses her lips, letting herself go to Alice in a way she never could with Hiram, but both of them will know that it’s more than that. Both of them will know that she means it with all of her being, that it’s irrevocably true, and that that’s the reason why the admission, in the end, is what triggers her climax. A gasp of pure rapture leaves her lips, the first waves of heat washing over her body as she tenses in Alice’s hold, and she shudders with the feel of it, how freeing it is to have finally admitted to herself where her loyalty truly lies. She feels like she’s floating in euphoria, red and gold fireworks bursting behind her eyelids, and she isn’t consciously aware of much else, but she knows that Alice finishes soon after she does, albeit not in a very satisfying way.

Hermione chuckles breathlessly at the lack of restraint between the two of them, at how ridiculously easy it was to convince her to fuck right here in the open, just outside of a party she’s meant to be running, and knows that she’s going to have to stand by her declaration. She truly is Alice’s - to what degree, she doesn’t know, because her allegiance is torn neatly in two, and she’s going to have to go back in there and act like Hiram Lodge’s loving wife in a few moments… but she doesn’t regret what they’ve just done, not for a second.

“Better now,” she asks hoarsely, a gentle grin overtaking her features as Alice groans in response. It’s a happy thing, replacing the words she can’t seem to find in her delirium, so Hermione imagines that she has her answer, and her smile widens as she pets her lover’s hair in what she hopes to be a comforting fashion. She would take in the view behind them, but all she can focus on is Alice, draped across her body contentedly and seemingly unwilling to ever move.

It’s odd, how easily Hermione manages to pull off this dichotomy. It’s trying at times, yes, but it is also much simpler than she would have thought, and though it’s obvious now that Alice is having trouble with their arrangement Hermione thinks the fact that they’ve even gotten this far with it is a miracle. Something has to give soon, and it probably will, but tonight is, finally, peaceful for the both of them, and that’s good enough for her. Carefully, she extracts herself from Alice’s grasp, wishing for a mirror, knowing she can’t have gotten out of that looking immaculate. She’s damp with sweat, and she can feel some of the hair that’s undoubtedly come free of her bun sticking to her skin.

“How do I look?”

The blonde smirks drowsily, still coming back to herself, and leans back against the railing, making a show of looking Hermione up and down.

“Beautiful.”

And, to her, she is. A masterpiece of Alice’s own making, decorated in lovebites and smeared lipstick, Hermione can only be considered exquisite in her eyes.

Hers.

All of that is hers.

Reluctantly, at Hermione’s pout, she helps clean up her lipstick and angles the top in a way that should cover most of the hickeys. It won’t help with everything, and Alice takes secret pride in that, in the idea that Hiram will see them and maybe, just maybe, they can stop sneaking around. She declares Hermione fit to leave with a gentle kiss and a smile, promising she’ll catch up, watching her walk away with ten times more confidence than what she’d started with. The sway to her lover’s hips makes Alice’s lips stretch into a smirk, knowing only she can truly appreciate it in full, knowing only she is really privy to all that body can do.

She will follow in a few minutes, at a safe and respectable distance, but now she just wants to enjoy the quiet. The soft afterglow, not of her own release, but of Hermione’s. That’s what she cares about, and what she thinks will change things tonight. The fact that she was allowed to bring that pleasure to a woman she so cares about despite the trying circumstances. She too dreads returning to the spectacle that is the Lodges’ latest gala, but she knows that Hermione needs her support now more than ever to be able to remain on Hiram’s arm like the trophy wife he expects her to be in the eyes of his company.

And anyway, she would have to be insane to pass up the opportunity of seeing Hiram’s face the first glimpse he caught of those marks. It will be bittersweet, that much is sure, but her entire night, her entire life, shares that melancholy flavor, and she’s begun to adapt to it, to numb to it, in a way she never thought she would. The victory will be sweet, even beneath what the rest of the room will perceive as Hiram’s gain, perhaps because it will be so secret. There will be no way for him to avoid knowledge of their affair now; Alice thinks he’s suspected them for a good while, and to consciously choose to confirm that gives her a heady feeling of power.

She’ll take it where she can get it, power. It is a fickle thing in this town, and especially for Cooper women there isn’t much to be had anymore.

So, carefully, the blonde takes in a harsh breath, willing herself to relax and drawing courage from the idea that, sometime soon, she will be able to return to this foreign world of pearls and champagne and it will be her with the beautiful socialite at her side, because she is Alice Cooper nee Smith, and she always gets what she wants. The smile on her lips might be a touch devious, but it becomes perfectly innocent again as the lighting shifts, and she holds her head high as she returns to the lion’s den.

After all, one thing she is exceptionally good at is pretending.


End file.
